


make for the seaside

by skeleton_twins



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Light-Hearted, M/M, Married Couple, Moving, Ocean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 21:09:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins
Summary: Hermann and Newt retire after the war, moving into a seaside cottage, a glimpse into their future.





	make for the seaside

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this tweet of mine: https://twitter.com/skeleton_twins/status/1084919206745960457
> 
> also if you tilt your head and squint this could be considered a sequel to my fic late night, early morning (although can stand separately)

There are several boxes left unopened on their pale wooden floors. Tape still clinging to some, still keeping the cardboard shut. Others have been messily ripped open with a scalpel that Newt carries out of habit (some habits hasn’t left them since the war. Hermann still carries rounded nubs of chalk in his pockets).

Some items are spilling over onto the floor. There’s hardly any clear spaces in between the clutter, few places where they can step without threatening to crush some object beneath their foot.

There are stacks of books, in piles, marine biology textbooks and biographies of dead mathematicians. A few dog-eared paperback historical romance novels that Hermann hid in between the books on astrophysics and classic literature- a guilty pleasure Newton already knew about even before the drift, that still makes him grin. Kaiju figurines rising not from the ocean but from tan boxes with messy handwriting on the sides, dark spots from where the marker bled. Left temporarily forgotten along with their other belongings. Things that haven’t yet been placed into their new spot, where they will remain permanently for the remainder of their lives. This, Hermann and Newt hope will be the last time these items will be moved.

It’s a long process, moving into a new home, a process they’re both familiar with. Usually, it’s a more rushed affair. There’s an email alerting the change, the transfer to a new shatterdome, there’s a deadline to pack. If anything is forgotten or misplaced, then it is simply left behind.

They had started early, arriving at the cozy, eggshell blue cottage first thing that morning, already tasting the salt in the air, inhaling it. It’s an almost familiar taste, one that they had grown used to already from standing on the helipad of the Hong Kong shatterdome that overlooked the Victoria Harbour, transporting samples, sneaking cigarette breaks at any available chance. Except this air is clean. Fresh. Nothing polluting these waters. No monsters hidden miles below the surface.

There’s a small moving truck in their pebble driveway that leads to the shore, a path of tiny grey pebbles turning to sand. They’re surrounded by the sea and it feels a lot like coming home.

Home has been many things. A treehouse in a big backyard, blades of grass, chasing after frogs and fireflies. Glow in the dark stars shining brightly in dark rooms and the meticulous construction of spaceships. A snowy university campus in Boston. The musty odor that clung to old books filled front to back with tiny rows of sentences on brittle pages in libraries that Hermann felled asleep in. Home became letters awaiting in mailboxes, of shaky penmanship _“Dear Dr. Geiszler,”_ and _“Dear Hermann,”_.

The concept of home became something fleeting when they join the efforts of the PPDC, something transitionary, nothing felt permanent. Not them and certainly not their futures.

Standing on their doorsteps of their new home, they wore matching eager, soft smiles as Newt unlocked the door to their new home with the shiny new set of keys (he drops them a few times, hands trembling, not from nerves, but a swell of excitement bubbling within that made Newt’s heart race as he listens to Hermann laugh as he swoops down to pick the keys up for the second time). They leave the door wide open, welcoming the morning light and the movers carrying in boxes of their possessions. Opened all the windows, even the ones that stick a little, the ones that Hermann let Newt struggle with. 

Sunshine pours into their home, filling the corners, along with cardboard boxes, unconstructed bookshelves, and guitars propped against walls. 

There's no hurry, no rush to unpack once the movers file out of their cottage and their truck has gone from sight, no longer blocking the view of the ocean from their doorstep. Nostalgia comes in waves as Newt cut at the duct tape sealing the boxes. It's a hard emotion to suppress as their old lives tumble onto their new hardwood floors. They slow with age, from the lingering exhaustion of the end of the world weighing on their shoulders for decades. They slow even further when they find letters, tidy and neat, carefully retucked in broken sealed envelopes and another big stack of folded yellowed letters tied together with plain ribbon. They sit on the floors, barefoot, rereading out loud letters from their youth, smothering giggles that burst forward from their mouths with distracting kisses.

They continue to unpack, slowly, at their own pace, continue to fill rooms with old souvenirs from the war, with the belongings that they carried-the new and old. They work until the sun descends, heading for the blurry horizon, driving the humidity away and leaving a cool breeze that blows gently through their screened windows in its wake.

There are still boxes left unopened when Hermann calls it quits for the day when he reaches for his husband with an outstretched hand. A hand that Newton takes in his own, helping Hermann to his feet and pressing the handle of his cane firmly into Hermann's open palm. 

Hermann doesn't say a word, merely glance back over his shoulder at Newt, still clutching his hand, lacing their fingers together. Newton follows. A decision he made years ago, a decision he’ll repeat forever, to follow Hermann anywhere. Followed his footsteps into the academy, followed him with every transfer, to shatterdome to shatterdome, to Hong Kong to the end of the world and into the drift. 

Hermann beckons with the tilt of his head, steers them outside, off the porch steps and towards the sea, where the yellow warmth of the sun still kisses their bare skin, despite the growing distance, sinking slowly, downwards into the waters. 

Newt leans over him, sitting on his bare knees. He's wearing tight, cuffed jean shorts that cling to his thighs. A short-sleeved shirt revealing familiar sights, tattooed skin inked with monsters they’ve conquered together. Newton is distracting, his presence simply demands attention, always forcing Hermann’s eyes away from computer screens and chalkboards filled with equations. Still distracting now, years later, Hermann watches, silently, as Newt sits back on his haunches in front of him. He’s tackling this with a concentration he usually reserves for his kaiju samples, pink tongue poking out between his teeth as he rolls Hermann’s trousers upwards, stopping once he reveals Hermann's pale shins. 

His fingers depart with a brief caress against his porcelain skin.

Satisfied, Newt settles beside him once more. His knees are dusty with sand, Hermann reaches over, fingertips grazing over his kneecaps, brushing the sand off.

Newton turns to him with a smile, catches his hand in his, entwining their fingers once more. He rubs at Hermann's wedding ring, rolling it around Hermann’s finger, a newly formed habit that Hermann doesn't mind in the slightest.

With his free hand, Newt's fingers brush at the loose strands that had tumbled across Hermann's forehead, the hair that has begun to curl at the edges.

“Your hair is curly," Newton fondly notes. A patch of sunlight hits his face directly, his green eyes glistening in the soft yellow glow.

Hermann clears his throat, "Yes, it tends to in this climate."

"I like it."

His fingers dip, across his temple, and along the outline of his ear as if he’s tracing patterns in seashells. Hermann’s eyes flutter closed at the touch.

With time, Hermann’s buzzed undercut will grow, no longer fuzzy under Newton’s fingertips, replaced with curls resulting from the ocean air. Newt will stay mesmerized by the sight, that is something that never changes.

With time, Newton will rise with the sun while Hermann sleeps, departing with a kiss to his forehead before he joins the seagulls outside, barefoot, collecting seashells to scatter throughout their home, on top of window sills and bookshelves.

With time, this will become their future, sitting outside their home each night with their feet buried in the cooling sand. They’ll take midnight drives along the shore, Newton’s motorcycle tires kicking up sand as they speed forward along the fractured moonlight reflecting off the water.

With time, the boxes with the scratchy handwriting on the sides: _the property of Dr. Hermann and Newt Geiszler-Gottlieb_ , that still sits on their floors will be emptied of their contents, will be stacked away somewhere in their new home for the very last time.

For now, they will sit before the vast ocean, watching the undulating tide, hand in hand, their future awaits.


End file.
